April hadn't expected anything. Largely due to the fact that their engagement was fake and he still hadn’t responded to her meeting invite. But if she had picturedfiancé flowersin her head, it would’ve been red roses. Impeccable. Expensive. A statement designed for witnesses.
This wasn’t that.
Sweet peas and ranunculus; soft and wild, gathered like someone had picked the prettiest pieces of joy and didn’t care if it looked symmetrical.
She took the card. Read it. The phantom sensation of a forehead pressing against hers in a crowded bullpen.
Chad stared at the bouquet like it had personally insulted him. "Oh my God," he hissed, stepping closer, voice low but angry enough to carry. "Stop making a spectacle."
"No. You don't get to call it a prank and make me the crazy one. You cheated." She turned back to her screen like he’d already been filed underResolved.
Chad waited for her to explain, to soften it, to give him anything he could work with.
Nothing came.
"This is obviously fake," he snapped, eyes darting to Liam for rescue. “You’re both—this is—” His voice was climbing now, frustration bleeding into anger. He swallowed hard. “I’m not going to overreact to this. When you’re done playing games—and you’ve calmed down—call me.”
Arthur appeared in the doorway. Unrushed. Undramatic. Inevitable.
“Sterling.”
“What—” Chad snapped. He’d wasted so much time trying to manage April, he forgot someone had been managing him.
By the time he reacted, Arthur was already beside April's desk. Presence immovable, options reduced. He glanced at her screen. The bottleneck map was still up: red cells, dependency arrows, the summary box screamingsingle point of failure.
“Send that to me,” he said.
April looked up. "It's just a—"
"April." His tone was final. "Send it."
She nodded slowly.
Arthur turned back to Chad. "Sterling." The single word landed like a gavel. Chad stumbled backward into his glass office like a man being escorted off a stage.
April set the card down carefully, then leaned toward Liam enough to make what she said next private, even in a room made of glass.
“I felt like a laughingstock this morning, standing in a supply closet, holding a cupcake, realizing I’d been the punchline.” Her fingers tightened on the edge of her desk. “I want him to walk into a room and feel that. That moment when you realize you don’t belong. That you never did.”
She met his eyes. "Could Chad get an invitation too? Something real-looking. Something he can't refuse."
Liam didn’t need her to explain. He caught the subtext instantly.
“Are you asking me,” he said, voice still low and private, “to make sure my brother has an unpleasant evening?”
"I want him to show up believing he belongs—and have the room disagree."
"You want him admitted," Liam murmured, "so he can be rejected."
"Yes."
He studied her for a long moment, deciding, and his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"I have an idea," he said. Liam acknowledged his brother's existence the way you'd notice a change in the weather. His smile was saccharine as he raised his voice. "You'll be at the gala tonight."
From inside the glass office, Chad's head lifted. He exhaled like he’d been underwater. “Yes. Thank God. Liam, you have no idea—”
“But you can’t go looking like that.” Liam gestured vaguely at Chad’s crumpled state. “Four o’clock. Couture Magnifique. I’ve arranged a private styling appointment.”
